I Am No Longer Alone
by Detective In Training
Summary: Sherlock and James are twins, separated by fate but linked by a lifetime of shared memories. How Sherlock rebuilds his life depends on his choices, but also on the people he meets in his path.


Following the solemn funeral ceremony, Sherlock returned home with the rest (the remnants of, he'd then go on to describe it) of his family. His mother locked herself away in her room, to grieve her pain in tears and one too many a drink. Mycroft gave himself up to his work, not returning from his government office for weeks on end. But Sherlock…well…he'd wake up as usual; spend hours at his laboratory as usual; keep utterly and completely to himself as usual. Everybody simply assumed that Sherlock being Sherlock, he'd simply obliterated the anguish, disguising it as some scientific fact. Walled it off into some tiny part of his soul, unreachable and inconsolable, and then proceeded to move on; operate, almost robotically at times, seemingly unshaken and unconcerned. Often, when his mother would wake in the middle of the night, her pillow soaking with sleep-shed tears, she would find him roaming the vast and silent house. At first she had tried to approach him cautiously, as one would to a feral animal, and gently inquire about how he's coping with the loss, but he had just shrugged off her advances, and muttered that "Caring is not an advantage", stalking back to his laboratory. After that, she left him to his nightly wanderings. After all, he always had been the strange, silent one.

Not James though. No. From the moment he was born, he'd been different. He'd stretched out his chubby little arms and cheerfully flailed them at her, gurgling happy baby sounds. Sherlock, born a few minutes later, had been so silent and stiff that the doctors had feared brain damage at best. They'd grown up together, inseparable, joined at the hip almost. However, while James would clamber trees and skin knees, chasing pigeons and throwing cartwheels across the lawn, Sherlock would quietly read a book next to him, pause to carefully observe and cross-reference a caterpillar, and give a slow smile of contentment at his wild, carefree twin. They were so identical in sight in appearance, down to the last hair, that even their mother often couldn't tell them apart if it weren't from the obvious character differences. The vivacious and animated one, and the strange and silent one. Her heart filled with love for both, but she always felt somewhat wary when Sherlock was around. He intimidated her, from a very early age, spouting strange facts and delighting in experiments she didn't even want to think about. She'd console herself that it was a passing phase, one which most boys go through it, but as time passed, she'd given up trying to interest him in what she saw was the good and proper, rough-and-tumble life that James led. She was fortunate, she'd catch herself thinking and then feel guilty about such a sinful thought, that at least one of her twins was normal. James of course was delighted to have such a smarty-pants for a brother; one who would quietly admire him from afar and offer him with advice about which wild plants he could eat on his camping expeditions, or which tree branch would bear his weight better while he'd be climbing for birds' nests. And every now and then his hare brained actions would draw out a rare, blooming and fleeting smile from Sherlock. They'd spend most summer nights together outside in the overgrown and expansive garden, sharing secret hideouts, building forts and bonfires, planning camping expeditions and designing complicated machinery; each in his own way, so different but yet so similar.

Through the years, this quiet companionship between the twins blossomed, not distanced as so often happens with time. They had begun to rely on each other, finding solace in the simple presence of the other-two shadows of the same person. Where one went, the other followed, and any separation caused them both grief, even if Sherlock denied it, and James laughed it off. Obviously, they could not be side by side forever, or even everywhere, because as time passed, James-ever the popular one, especially with girls, started hanging out more and more often with his friends, even spending weekends away from home. The final drop was when he announced that he was leaving to study at a prestigious art and music academy. Sherlock accepted defeat graciously, still adoring his twin in silence and listening wide eyed to James's tales of debauchery when he'd return home for holidays, tanned and muscular, every so often bringing yet another clingy, simpering girl on his arm for his mother to sigh disparagingly at.

Then at a point, the long semesters at college were interrupted. Then the ceaseless visits from artistic friends and eager girlfriends slowed and then finally drew to a halt. James became withdrawn and listless, sketching or writing in his room, covering the walls, the desk and floor with papers; sheaves of them everywhere. Sherlock would sit at the foot of James' bed, still reading, still gazing with wonder at his brother, ignoring all the signs so clear in front of his scientific eyes that his brother was wasting away; simply vanishing before him.

Specialists were called in by the dozen, offering cures and miracles and wonderful new treatments, many of which reduced James to a whimpering creature-one that Sherlock knew no longer. He could not-would not-admit to himself, or anyone for that matter, that the one person he was devoted to and would gladly give his own valueless life for, was dying from cancer.

Finally, in spring time, a small lull. The illness seemed to ebb away, nearly defeated, yet still lingering somewhere. Their mother, revived by all the flowers and scents and birdsong threw them a birthday party which James's few staunchly remaining friends attended, cheerfully glossing over his ashen colour, sunken cheeks, walking stick and the permanent expression of pain etched in his once handsome face. They sung with him, linked arms and pretended that death was not knocking at the door. And Sherlock ran along the garden path to his little study and fuelled with indescribable rage smashed every last test tube, Petri dish, and measuring cylinder he owned into smithereens, letting this crashing and smashing wash over him and carry him away to a place of peace and quiet, where he and his brother still played by the sea, chasing seagulls and writing in the sand.

"One last camping trip", he promised them. "Just one more, so that I can feel as alive as I used to all those years ago". His friends will be side by side with him every step of the way, his medicines in his bag, he'll be safe in his wheelchair-all geared up and ready to go, he joked. One last hug, and extra hand squeeze for his brother and they were off. And then three days later, the call. Two days later, the funeral. After that, nothing ever was the same.

Following one of his nightly rounds of the echoing house, looking for respite and finding none, impulsively Sherlock pulled open the door to James's room, the very same one they had shared for so many years until Sherlock had decided that it was too big for himself while James was away at college, and relocated all his things to a smaller, basement one. The room smelt musty, and with a pervasive tinge of medicine. The back of the door was covered with their childhood drawings-bright colourful crayons and sloppy watercolours. Sherlock felt a twinge of something sharp in his chest and breathed in and out, in and out until the feeling passed. The bed, still unmade; a stained teacup lying on its side on the bedside table, covered in bottles and pills. It was evident that his mother had not yet gained enough strength, even two months after, to enter in here. This sanctuary of sadness and solitude. This mausoleum, rather.

With the toe of his slipper he pushed a path through the haphazard drawings scattered everywhere-blanketing the room, and blanketed by dust. It was almost too dark, but something inside Sherlock forbade him to reach for the lights, and anyway, he knew every inch of the room blindfolded. He was going to sit at the foot of the bed as he always had, but a step before it, his knees trembled and gave way, and he found himself kneeling by its side, hands clutching the covers, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as his mind fought for control. Then, another paper between the sheets. Sherlock brought it out, lifting it up to the faint moonlight, readying himself for a familiar drawing sketched in so the well known hand. Instead he stared at a small square of paper. '_Dearest Sherlock_,' it started.

Sherlock jumped up and fled. Out of the room, down the corridor, out through the front door, out, down, anywhere, footsteps echoing like cannon shots, closing him inside a glass cage of sound while the only thing he felt was the paper burning in his closed fist. He ran until he wept. He wept for the pain shooting throughout his body, he wept for the pain of his mother and Mycroft, he wept for the anguish of James's friends, and as he started to make his way through the curling familiar script of his brother, he wept in anguish and desolation for his own suffering, his lost brother and the realization that no matter how advanced his science or rational his thinking, they will never be reunited.

'_Dearest Sherlock,_

_You are reading this, which is a good sign. It means that I am in a better place, and it also means that you are strong enough to face this on your own two feet. We shared a life of fantasy and adventure. We dreamed of being pirates, astronauts and deep sea explorers. And while I can no longer do any of those things, you still can, and I know-have always known-that you, my dear brother, can dream of things far greater than any other mind I have ever met. Not only dream them, but achieve them. As you will go through each step of your life-happy or sad, strong or weak, surrounded by friends or alone-I need you to know that I will be there, side by side with you, lending you a hand when the path seems weak, edging you on when you are so close to the finish line, and always, ALWAYS, Sherlock, watching over you._

_Remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that._

_With all my heart and love,_

_James"_


End file.
